Frost
by Joodiff
Summary: It's nearly Christmas, and Boyd's in the doghouse... Complete. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

 _Happy Christmas/Festive Season, everyone!_ :) _xx_

* * *

 **Frost**

by Joodiff

* * *

He's in the doghouse. Boyd knows it, Grace knows it. Even the rest of the damn team seem to know it, although they don't know _why_ and are therefore apparently following a wise policy of keeping their heads down and their mouths shut. Oh, yes, Boyd is indisputably in the doghouse. If it were a work thing, it wouldn't particularly bother him. In fact, it would probably be more-or-less water off the legendary duck's back. It's _not_ a work thing. It is most definitely _not_ a work thing, and it's surprising him just how bothered he is by the determined cold shouldering he's receiving. He's not used to it, isn't too sure how to react to it. He's used to Grace being endlessly tolerant; he's used to her tearing him off a strip or two and then almost immediately forgiving him with a disapproving look and a resigned shake of the head. He's used to being angrily lectured; he's even used to being treated like a naughty schoolboy who has somehow disappointed her. He is _not_ used to her coolly, calmly ignoring him.

Boyd is in trouble. Serious trouble. The type that has everything to do with being a man and possessing all the delicate sensitivity of a main battle tank. The type of trouble that's signalled by great big capital letters, and isn't solved by a quick telephone call to Interflora, a hastily-deployed credit card, and a sheepish grin. Any thoughts he might naïvely have harboured about being grudgingly forgiven overnight disappear the moment he arrives for work and it becomes abundantly clear that going anywhere near Doctor Grace Foley is going to leave him with a particularly severe case of frostbite. Accordingly, a bewildered and angry Boyd does what he does best. He shouts at the minions around him. For most of the morning he rampages backwards and forwards between the CCU's lab and squad room like a loud, belligerent, and extremely bad-tempered bull, leaving endless chaos and confusion in his wake. Naturally enough, his extended tantrum is only met by a derisive look of icy disdain by the exasperated object of his affections.

Frustrated, he eventually retreats to his office and remains there, sullen and sulking in magnificent solitude, shooting baleful looks at anyone who dares to even _think_ about approaching his door. The subtle complexities of the thoughts and emotions of the fairer sex are not Boyd's specialist subject, but in the end even _he_ slowly begins to understand the awesome magnitude of his blunder. A mature, experienced man of the world who professes to be profoundly in love with a woman he says he admires and respects above all others does not commit the cardinal sin of forgetting that he has arranged an intimate, festive dinner-date at an extremely expensive and exclusive London restaurant with said woman. Furthermore, on receiving a sharp and glacial telephone call from that same woman, any man with any empathy – or any hint of common-sense – does not nonchalantly admit to being distracted by routine paperwork and therefore losing all track of time. Nor does he further compound that schoolboy error by verbally shrugging and lightly suggesting that another evening _after_ Christmas might do just as well. Not if he doesn't want to be in the doghouse until doomsday.

Which, of course, is exactly where Boyd currently finds himself. And he's discovering he doesn't like it one little _bit_.

-oOo-

At some point after lunch, he simply disappears. Grace does not see him go, and when she raises questions about the unusual situation, all anyone else on the team seems to know is that he is not expected back at his desk until the morning. Given the proximity to Christmas of Boyd's dark, surly mood, the general feeling amongst his junior colleagues is that this is A Very Good Thing. Superficially, she agrees, but privately she's irked by the fact that she has been robbed of the golden opportunity to pointedly stalk past his office en route for home without sparing him so much as a cold nod of farewell. Whether Boyd has deliberately pre-empted her half-formulated dark plan or not, she's not sure, but it seems highly likely. After all, as the morning has amply demonstrated, despite being well and truly old enough to know better he's still capable of behaving exactly like a spoilt child when he feels he's been slighted, and she's well-aware that her dignified cold-shouldering has got deeply under his skin.

He deserves it. He _thoroughly_ deserves it, Grace keeps telling herself as she tries to concentrate on work. Not so much for completely forgetting the promised evening out she'd spent so long getting ready for, but for his cavalier attitude when she frostily drew his attention to his unfortunate mistake. Oh, she knows she's behaving a little childishly herself, but he deserves _that_ , too. _Absolutely_ deserves it. Unreliable, bad-tempered, obtuse… There are many adjectives she can think of to describe her absent lover, and just at that moment none of them are positive. As she finally closes the bulging case file in front of her, she mentally adds stubborn, wilful, and capricious to the ever-expanding descriptive list. She is quite consciously not allowing herself to reflect on any of his better points. She doesn't want to remember that however unpredictable and occasionally breath-takingly insensitive he is, he is also affectionate, compassionate, and intensely loyal. Amongst other good things.

Thank God, there's a half-decent bottle of red wine waiting for her at home. She fully intends to drink it, too. _All_ of it, probably, and if Boyd makes the mistake of languidly phoning her at some ridiculously anti-social hour, as he frequently does when he knows full well he's in the wrong but still can't quite bring himself to voice a humble apology, she might just tell him _exactly_ what she thinks of him, and in no uncertain terms. And then his mood will become even blacker and he will sulk for even longer. Good. Let him get on with it. Christmas or not, it serves him damn well right.

For better or worse, she's more in love with him than is probably good for her. Sadly, there's no realistic way of denying it. Sometimes – particularly on days like this one – she's not altogether sure _why_ , but love isn't exactly renowned for always being perfectly understandable. In her experience opposites _do_ attract. Not always, and not necessarily with satisfactory consequences, but it can – and _does_ – happen. Nor, in their case, is that attraction a one-way street; it just took Boyd far longer than her to recognise the fact. But then, even for a man he's remarkably slow about such things. Always has been. It never fails to amaze Grace that according to prevailing rumour he was once very happily married. Conversely, it's _never_ surprised her that after years of accidental neglect his long-suffering wife eventually packed her bags and headed off into the sunset with a man who didn't think that working until well after midnight every night was perfectly acceptable, and who could be relied on to remember birthdays and anniversaries.

Sighing, Grace starts to collect together all the stray bits and pieces she's taking home for the long festive break. All things being equal, tomorrow should be a short working day, one that will almost certainly end with festive cheer and several rounds of drinks in the King's Head two streets from the CCU's headquarters. That being the case, she has no intention of wasting any of it worrying about what she might possibly need from her office before the first week in January.

She _will_ forgive him, of course. It's a foregone conclusion. She always does in the end because despite everything, despite how insensitive and infuriating he can often be, he simply doesn't have a bad bone in his body. He's irascible, quick-tempered, and endlessly thoughtless, but he just doesn't have it in him to be deliberately cruel. At heart, where it matters, Peter Boyd is a thoroughly decent man. Which is why she's still prepared to make excuses for him after so many years and so much questionable behaviour. If there's anyone who knows him well enough to forgive him his many flaws, it's Grace.

Additionally, she grudgingly admits to herself as she bids farewell to her colleagues and heads up the stairs that will lead her to what little's left of the day, she will forgive him because she knows _she_ is not an easy person to live with herself, and behind closed doors Boyd is far more tolerant of all _her_ foibles than anyone who knows him would ever credit. She will forgive him because although he is nowhere near naïve enough to subscribe to the worrying myth of Saint Grace the Infallible, she's come to accept that he loves her unreservedly, and with the kind of gruff, unswerving devotion that she's discovered she's hungry for.

Still, it's up to _him_ to make amends. It won't hurt him to learn the hard way that taking her for granted personally, as he's too often done professionally, is neither acceptable nor wise. In many ways they're still finding their feet in this newest stage of their long, ever-changing relationship, and however much she loves him Grace has no intention of _ever_ submissively dancing to his tune. The days when she was prepared to put up with just about anything to keep a man are long, long gone. Dead and buried, just like Harry Taylor and the bittersweet memories of all the other selfish, headstrong men exactly like him.

-oOo-

Just this once Boyd is grateful for Grace's bewildering penchant for using public transport whenever possible. Too often it's an infuriating pain in the arse, and never more so when she's left her car at home for the day just when he needs her to meet him at a crime scene or a suspect's house, but today the cause of several past sharp exchanges plays straight into his hands. He knows she will walk to the underground station at Sloane Square, take the tube to Embankment and then switch to the Northern Line for the last part of her journey home. Whether she intends to alight at Tufnell Park or Archway doesn't matter a jot to Boyd – he's gambling on catching her before she even reaches Sloane Square, and he's pretty damn sure he'll catch her right here on the King's Road because however much she likes to deny it, she's _far_ more nostalgic about those mythical halcyon days of the 'sixties than he'll ever be.

The thought makes him smile grimly to himself. He's a little younger than she is, true, but sitting stationary in his snappy little classic roadster he suspects he looks every inch the stereotypical baby boomer. Late middle-aged and not at all keen on admitting it. Jeans, grey hair, and an open-topped car no-one under fifty would even vaguely consider driving. At least it's not one of those ridiculously expensive modern convertibles that simply scream 'mid-life crisis'. And at least the woman he's waiting for isn't a twenty-something blonde with far more in the way of tits than brains. Though he wouldn't be altogether averse to the idea… No. Boyd stops that line of thought dead in its tracks without a twinge of regret. He's done with ill-advised dalliances with women who are far too young for him. He likes them, and they seem to like him, but despite the considerable appeal to his vanity, he is sensible enough to know that there eventually comes a time when –

He catches sight of Grace in the rear-view mirror, his idle thoughts instantly dissipating. She's walking quickly and confidently, most of her attention focused on glancing at the elaborately decorated shop windows while dodging her fellow pedestrians. She doesn't seem to notice the small dark green sports car parked neatly ahead of her in one of the marked bays outside Foxtons. No reason why she should, and it almost pleases him that she doesn't. Gives him more time to study her as she approaches. Good-looking woman, no doubt about that. Not a conventional head-turning stunner, maybe, but slim and extremely attractive. Carries the years well, and makes the most of herself in a wonderfully understated way. Nothing brash or gaudy; clothes, hair and make-up all perfectly age-appropriate but a long, long way from dowdy. Elegant and eclectic. Yeah, those are probably the words he's looking for.

He really is an idiot sometimes, Boyd reflects, caught by a sudden despondent stab of self-loathing. Accidentally standing her up – at bloody _Christmas_ – and then foolishly electing to attempt to make light of it instead of doing his damnedest to immediately apologise and try to make it up to her. And then deciding to take her at her word and leave her alone instead of getting in his car and going to hammer on her front door… What a thoughtless prick. Little wonder she's been so cold and distant towards him all day.

It says a _lot_ that he cares that she's angry with him. Nine times out of ten he doesn't give a damn what his occasional female companions think when work gets in the way of what they want, as it far too often does. Impatient, and naturally something of a free spirit, over the years he's become singularly unafraid to move on when too many demands are made on his time and his attention. Some extremely fascinating, amusing, and in some cases astonishingly beautiful women have discovered that to their cost over the last decade or so – little wonder he's acquired such a bad reputation when it comes to forming and maintaining meaningful relationships. Women. However well it starts, they always seem to end up wanting far more than he's prepared to give.

Not this time. This woman is a striking exception to all the lessons Boyd's slowly and cynically learned over the years. She takes him as he is – admittedly not without some resigned head-shaking – and she doesn't make unreasonable demands, or lay impossible expectations before him. Sometimes he's not sure she that needs him at all, not even slightly, and that, of course, piques his interest. And how does he bloody repay her…?

-oOo-

He's just suddenly there, a tall, handsome, broad-shouldered figure standing right in front of her. Which is almost less surprising than his casual attire or the slight, rather shamefaced smile he gives her as he says, "Would you believe me if I said I've thought about it, and I'm sorry?"

"I'd probably believe you," Grace tells him, reluctantly coming to a standstill in the middle of the busy pavement, "but whether I'd be willing to forgive you quite so easily is another matter entirely."

"Hm. How likely are you to try?"

He's so disarming that it's nowhere near as easy as she would like to maintain an appropriately forbidding expression. She tries for a cool, dismissive shrug and a haughty, "That rather depends on _you_ , Boyd, and whether or not you're likely to do the same thing again."

He puts his hands in his pockets and looks down at her with quiet, contemplative calm. "I guess I'm completely screwed, then."

The wretched man has balls, she'll give him that. In far more than the literal sense. Snorting, she says, "At least you're honest about it, I suppose."

"Too crowded to be travelling on the tube tonight," he says, glancing round at the increasing crowd of last-minute shoppers and recently-liberated office workers now flooding the pavement. "Come for a ride with me."

"It's cold," Grace points out, treating the little roadster tucked into the kerb a few feet away to a disdainful look. In better weather, she likes the jauntiness of it and the way it reminds her of decades long past, but with winter really beginning to bite, the idea of open-top motoring in an elderly vehicle with inadequate heating has lost most of its romance. Instead of belabouring the point, however, she adds a suspicious, "What are you up to?"

"Damage limitation," is Boyd's prompt reply. "Look, I know I fucked up last night, Grace. I was busy, and I just wasn't thinking. That's an explanation, by the way, not an excuse."

It's a candid, ingenuous statement, and that, at least, makes her feel a little more charitable towards him. It's taking them both some time to adjust to their radically altered situation, she knows, and Christmas… well, as exciting as the idea of sharing their very first Christmas together as a couple is, it's not been the easiest thing to organise. Different families and circles of friends, different ideas and traditions. People to confess the truth to, people to diligently hide it from... All of it perhaps a little harder for Boyd than for her because of his role as the CCU's commander and all the additional work and responsibility that entails. This year, after all, is the very first year since its inception that the unit will be completely shut down for anything but an extreme emergency for the entire festive period. That, he's done for her. Done to be _with_ her, instead of stoically manning the barricades on his own with just a skeleton staff until everyone else returns after New Year as he's done most years.

Not quite ready to forgive him entirely, she says, "That's always been your problem, Boyd. Speak first, think second."

"I know," he admits with a candid nod, "and I _am_ sorry. Come on, I'm doing my best to apologise here. Cut me some slack, eh?"

"Hm," Grace says, still noncommittal. A trio of excited young women with tinsel in their hair rush past them, click-clacking in high heels as they chatter and laugh, their happiness and excitement clear to see. They look as if they're heading to an office party, or something similar, and something in her heart softens at the sight. It's Christmas, and he's a decent man, even if he is sometimes incredibly thoughtless about the sort of things… the sort that don't matter a jot compared to finding herself happy and healthy less than six months after…

 _Cancer_.

Even just the word sends a cold chill down her spine. One that isn't countered by the contrasting word _remission_.

He was there when she needed him. Didn't need to be asked or told. Didn't vacillate or withdraw like some of her other friends. Somehow just seemed to know when she was low, when she was struggling, when she was frightened, or was simply too bloody stressed and tired to tell herself to keep going. Never maudlin, never defeatist. _Always_ tough on her, forcing her to face the next day and the next, but never, ever allowing her to stumble. It meant a lot to her then, and it still means a lot to her now.

He says, "So… are you going to give me a chance to make it up to you, then?"

She's certain neither of them expected – or intended – to fall in love during those long, hard days. The very idea of it remains ludicrous, after all, given the length of time they've known each other, and the chequered history of their shared past.

But it happened.

"All right," she mutters, grumpy and ungracious, "but whatever you've got in mind better be _good_ , Boyd"

-oOo-

In its own way, it's a magical sort of place. Even Boyd thinks so. A private little square of greenery tucked away behind a very ordinary Victorian terrace just west of Greenwich Park, not far from the street where he, himself lives. A tiny gated, locked oasis hidden from casual view, only accessible to residents. Or, in this case, to a very good friend of one of the strictly limited number of keyholders. A tranquil place for a privileged few to spend some of their leisure time, separated from the hustle and bustle of the streets beyond. Not used very much by anyone in the winter, though as happens at Christmas every year, the handful of skeletal, leafless trees have been strung with ice-white fairy lights that seem to shimmer when they're stirred even slightly by the stiff early evening breeze. The sight even manages to stir _his_ jaded soul, and when he glances at Grace, he knows she's entranced.

Squeezing her gloved hand, he says, "Come on."

"We can't go in there," she immediately objects. "These sorts of communal gardens are all private, and anyway, it's probably locked."

"It is," Boyd agrees with easy nonchalance, "and it is. Private _and_ locked. But I have a key."

Grace frowns, her pensive expression semi-lit by the electric globe lantern topping the corner post of the tall iron railings. Half-shadowed, she looks impossibly delicate, almost ethereal. "Boyd…"

"It's all right," he assures her, "a friend of mine lives just over there at number eighteen, and she loaned me her key."

"' _She_ '."

The single word couldn't be any more pointed. His instinct is to smirk at her reaction, but even _he's_ not that stupid. Not after the disaster of the previous night. Straight-faced, he says, "Old friend."

"I bet." The bitterness not quite successfully hidden.

Amused, but possessed by the need to reassure her, Boyd shakes his head. "Not in the way you think, Grace."

"Of _course_ not," is her cool, sardonic reply.

" _Really_ not in the way you think." It's a risk, but he chances a quick, roguish grin. "We went through Hendon together, about a million years ago. She's something in SO19 nowadays."

The response is cool. "I see."

The clear evidence of more than a touch of jealousy is flattering. Comforting, too. If she didn't care… He shakes his head. "She's also very happily married to an eight-foot gorilla called Steve who used to be in the Paras."

A little of the tension seems to leave her stance. "Oh."

Deciding no further explanation is necessary, Boyd reaches into his coat pocket for the heavy, old-fashioned key to the gate. Producing it with all the verve of a professional conjurer, he says, "Key."

Grace is still regarding him with some suspicion, as if she can't quite decide whether to trust him or not. In a way, he sympathises. Their relationship hasn't always been easy, and he hasn't always been as honest with her as she deserved. Sometimes, though, it's been necessary – _essential_ – to play his cards very close to his chest. The CCU is still receiving funding from New Scotland Yard because it gets results, and it gets results simply because he's willing to fly closer to the wind than most. Not the sort of thing anyone's prepared to start shouting from the rooftops, but all those tough choices, all those morally ambivalent decisions – they're difficult to hide from someone like Grace. It's unfortunate, but she has her reasons not to take everything he says at face value.

"Key," she accepts. "So…?"

Boyd hopes his judgement is sound. Hopes the afternoon wasn't wasted. Hopes more than anything that she'll understand what he's trying to do. Understand, and smile at him.

He never saw it coming, this… thing… that's happened between them. Even in hindsight, it puzzles him, the how, when, and why of it all. Still can't quite fathom how they got to where they are now. Maybe it doesn't matter.

" _She's not in Copenhagen, Boyd…"_ Eve's voice, quiet and hesitant in that damned clock tower, _"she's in hospital…"_

Like a punch in the gut, the devastating news. _Cancer_. Shock and worry quickly followed by incomprehension and anger. _Why didn't you tell me…?_

"Come on," he says, all-but towing her towards the locked gate as he shakes off the too-recent painful memories. He wants her to know… to understand… Wants to prove to her that he might be thoughtless, but he's not heartless. Wants to make some kind of silent declaration that goes way beyond the apology he knows she's owed. _Forgive me, Grace. Forgive me, love me; give me a chance. Please don't walk away from me…_

This time the lock turns smoothly, the light seal of rust broken hours earlier. The hinges of the gate squeak softly as he pushes it open, but that's okay. Adds to the magic, somehow. Stepping back, Boyd ushers her past with the kind of quiet, unconscious courtesy drilled into him decades ago by anxious parents who wanted far better for their children than they ever had. _Good manners cost nothing._ Unlike the sacrifices they made to ensure that both their sons went not to the teeming secondary modern expected, but to the local boys' grammar school where standards were set much higher.

Closing the gate behind them, he takes her hand again, leads her through the thick patterns of shadows to the weathered oak picnic table sited in the lee of a big London plane tree that was probably already over a hundred years old when the surrounding houses were built around it.

"What's going on, Boyd?" Grace demands, the tetchy edge to her voice making it clear that she's losing patience. "It's absolutely _freezing_ out here, and – "

"Wait here a moment," he instructs.

-oOo-

At least the evening's crisp and dry, lacking the worst of the foggy damp of recent days. Cold enough to make her shiver as the frost falls despite her thick wool coat, and cold enough for her breath to form brief, dense clouds, but in a sharp, wintry way that reminds her how few days there are left until Christmas. There's something about the atmosphere created by the twinkling white lights in the trees, too, that makes her want to give Boyd a chance to redeem himself, however damned cold it is. The enclosed square of trees, bushes and grass isn't large, and it's less than a minute before he's back from the deepest of the shadows, his arms full of blankets, cushions and what appears to be an old-fashioned picnic hamper. Things suddenly become much clearer.

"Oh, no," she protests. "No, Boyd. _No_. I'm not sitting out here for hours, it's _far_ too cold."

"Humour me," he says, and she's immediately tempted to point out exactly how much of her time she spends doing exactly that. Still, before she can complain further, he's heaping cushions and blankets on the wide oak slats, creating a thick and comfortable insulating layer that he prods experimentally before giving her a disarming smile. "Please?"

Oh, he can be charming when he wants to be. Often makes it difficult to refuse him without seeming churlish. Sighing, Grace shakes her head. "Oh, all _right_. But – "

"Good," he says, overriding her protests, and as she gingerly settles, he covers her lap with another blanket, instantly reducing the chill. She thinks he's done until he drapes yet another around her shoulders. She wonders what she must look like, as thoroughly wrapped up as she now is. "I feel completely bloody ridiculous perched here bundled up like this," she complains.

"But are you warm?" Boyd asks, placing a light kiss on the top of her head before moving away.

"Yes." A grudging admission. "Well? What happens now?"

He's got the hamper open, and the very first thing he produces is a decent-sized bottle of crémant bearing a particularly good label. Her approval must show, because he smiles in clear satisfaction as he sets it down on the table in front of her. "I know it's not a five-course dinner at The Juniper, Grace, but…"

She doesn't expect him to finish the sentence, and he doesn't. He's never been good at expressing himself, not on a personal level. Present him with a two decades' old desiccated corpse, and he can be a truly inspirational speaker, capable of motivating the entire team to do their absolute best before they're even half-aware of it. Ask him how he feels about something that's happening in his private life, and he can barely string three or four words together. Glasses join the bottle, followed by plates she recognises as coming straight from his kitchen, and a couple of very ordinary-looking plastic food containers of the type commonly used to store leftovers. With only the barest trace of irony, she says, " _But…_ for some bizarre reason you thought I might fancy a makeshift picnic in the freezing-bloody-cold instead?"

He hides it well, but she's certain she sees a quick flash of bewildered hurt in Boyd's dark eyes. He's trying so hard to do the right thing, she realises, to make up for what was, after all, just a few hours of minor disappointment and exasperation. He doesn't deserve to have his efforts thrown back in his face. Before she can form a grumpy apology, he reaches for the bottle and asks, "Do you remember the first time we slept together, Grace?"

She really can't help rolling her eyes at the absurd question. The heat and strength and weight of him, the sheer masculinity of him… "Well of _course_ I do. It was only a couple of months ago, and my memory's not _that_ bad yet, thank you _very_ much."

"And do you remember the next morning?" he inquires, peeling away the foil from the neck of the bottle. "You tried every trick in the bloody book to force me to say that I thought we'd made a big mistake."

It's an effort not to wince, to hold his steady gaze and admit, "I was frightened, Boyd."

"You pushed and pushed until I finally lost my temper," he recalls.

"I know," she confesses, remembering his blistering impatience, his wild fury, "and I'm sorry. I've _told_ you that."

"I didn't leave, though, did I?" Boyd challenges. "You were so damn sure I would, but I didn't. We had a blazing row, slammed a lot of doors, and eventually ended up back in bed together." He pops the cork with a dull _thunk_ , waits for the crémant to settle, then starts to pour it into the nearest of the two glasses. "Last night was… unfortunate, Grace. I was trying to get a head start on everything that needs to be done before we go home tomorrow, and I completely lost track of time. I could have handled it better, but I didn't. I'm sorry about that. I truly am. But if this is going to work, we _both_ have to behave like adults when there's a problem."

A hot surge of indignation rushes through her at the implied accusation, but even before she's opened her mouth to berate him, Grace realises the unpalatable truth of what he's saying. He may be tactless, but he's right. She shouldn't have allowed her personal feelings, her spiky annoyance with him, to spill over into their working environment. She takes a reluctant calming breath, then nods. "All right. Fair point, Boyd. I was angry with you, but I should have left that at home instead of letting it follow me to work."

He hands her one of the glasses, raises the other in an ironic toast. "Cheers."

Sipping the sparkling liquid, Grace waits for him to seat himself before saying, "Thank you for all this. I really do appreciate the effort you've gone to."

His reply is an indifferent grunt. A moment later, he inquires, "Do you know _why_ I always try to do all that routine shit myself instead of passing it on to my DI like any other unit commander would?"

"Because you're a workaholic?" she offers, only partly in jest.

"Because," Boyd says, ignoring the gibe, "unlike the rest of you, _I_ don't get paid overtime. I get paid my salary, and that's it. Whether I work thirty-six or sixty-six hours a week – it makes no bloody difference to the budget. Every hour I spend on the ridiculous mountain of paperwork required to do _anything_ saves us just that tiny little extra bit of money for something much more important. Every time I stay at my desk until well after midnight wrestling with everyone's damned expenses, what I'm really doing is making sure that we can actually afford for you, or Spence, or Eve to be there when you're really needed."

Not something Grace has ever considered. She frowns. "Surely things aren't _that_ bad?"

"Oh, they are," he assures her, his expression grim. "They most certainly are. And they're only going to keep getting worse. We're thoroughly out of favour at the Yard, Grace, and the internal investigation into the whole Linda Cummings debacle really hasn't helped."

Bewildered, she demands, "So why on _earth_ are you risking drawing further attention to us by shutting down over Christmas?"

"For _you_ ," Boyd growls, his growing impatience quite clear. "For _us_. Believe it or not, Grace, I want this… _us_ … to work. Oh, I'm going to fuck up again, and we both know it. I'm going to forget something, or say or do the wrong thing, or not listen when you tell me something important – but that's just how real life is. Doesn't mean I don't… care about you."

Grace knows what he's not quite managing to say. "Well, if we're being completely honest, Boyd, we both know that I'm going to get annoyed with you _for_ forgetting something, or for saying or doing something stupid, or for not listening to a single word I'm saying, but that doesn't mean I don't _love_ you, either."

The solemn gaze doesn't abate. It takes him several long moments, but when he does smile, it's the best thing she's seen all day. Sheepish again, he says, "So… I'm forgiven?"

"For last night?" She nods. "Yes. For the sins you've yet to commit? Well, we'll just have to see."

"I brought Christmas cake," Boyd says after a moment, reaching for the nearest plastic container. "Also, some rather sorry-looking mince pies. It was the best I could do at short notice."

He's a man who tries. Maybe that's half the attraction. Deadpan, she asks, "What about mistletoe?"

Again, he smiles. Mischievous, this time. "'Fraid not, Grace. For _that_ , you're going to have to come back to my place for the night…"

 _\- the end -_

* * *

 **Happy Christmas/Holiday Season 2017!**


End file.
